A Piece of Paper
I walked into the apartment
and she looked at me steaming,
holding up a piece of paper
and said: “what the fuck is this?”
“I don’t know, what is it?” I replied
genuinely confused. “David, you wrote
a poem about your fucking ex!” she
shouted. “I don’t know, did I?”
I asked as I reached for the paper.
“Oh, this is old, who cares, and why
the fuck did you read it to begin with?”
I said. “I needed to use a notepad, and
I found it, and you’re writing poems about
having sex with your fucking ex” she said
as her eyes began watering and she became
even more hysterical. “Who gives a shit?
it’s not even flattering; I talk about how bad
the sex was, who gives a fuck!” I said raising
my voice, growing frustrated with her theatrics.
Eventually after some more shouting, back and
forth, about a poem I had forgotten, we made peace.
I crumpled up the paper and I told her I wouldn’t write
anymore poems about any of my exes, and that’s exactly
who she is now too; so, I guess I lied.